Threnody: Interlude One
by Jainie Starr
Summary: Kareem Said's brain on a silver platter and under a microscope.


From the Journal of Kareem Said: 

...he smiles so very infrequently, these days. It is beyond foolish of me to say that, I know -- especially considering the past few weeks. Still, I feel a loss because of it, and keenly, though I can't say why. 

He stares through people, now, as though he can see into the very heart of them. But, if he can in fact see into mens' souls, what he sees apparently no longer frightens him, or even concerns him, as it once might have. The demons that crouch in his own soul are far darker, far deadlier. 

This silence, this persistent apathy of his disturbs me greatly. 

Before the abduction of his son and daughter, he was well on his way to becoming a part of this prison. It was, at long last, becoming a home to him. He had finally accepted responsibility for what had sent him here: he hit and killed Cathy Rockwell with his car. Taking a life is no small infraction. That little girl no longer breathes because of him. And yet, I must wonder -- did the punishment fit the crime? Did it ever? Looking at him now, I cannot help but think that the things he has suffered would satisfy Cathy's parents. The man who killed their daughter has been raped, broken, beaten, humiliated, dehumanized, immasculated, driven mad by grief and drugs and regret. But, then again, in other ways, perhaps the Rockwells might not think that he has suffered _enough_. 

But he had been well on his way to accepting it: the addiction that had once crippled him and the irresponsiblity of getting into his car that afternoon, knowing full well that he was intoxicated. The knowledge that another person's life -- a child's life -- had come to an abrupt, terrifying end... because of him. Cathy could just as easily have been his own daughter. 

I thank Allah most graciously in leading Schillinger into the light, if even for a moment, and convincing him to show mercy on that poor child. 

I saw him with his daughter, today, as I was passing by on my way to the inmate outfitters' room for work detail. They sat together in the children's visiting room and she sat perched on his knee while he read to her from a book, her eager blue eyes gazing up adoringly, watching her father as he read. She paid far more attention to him than to the story he was telling. That's as it should be. 

Oh, but she is such a lovely child. Blond hair, a bright smile and a beautiful, trusting face, just as her father has. 

Or... as her father once _had._

Although Sister Peter Marie was of no help to him during the tension-frought days after the children were abducted, her decision that he see his daughter after her return to her family was indeed a wise one. The two of them need each other right now, more than anything. I think it could be a first step in healing for him. First step. Once again, he finds himself back at square one. But I will do all that I can to make him realize that he is not alone in this, that he is not fighting a losing battle. I refuse to let him slip away, refuse to surrender him to his anguish. 

The dreams continue and I am plagued with questions. I do not doubt my faith but the feelings that roil within me now contradict everything I am, everything I know, everything I have ever believed or invested my faith in. I know I should not fear change -- if changes are to occur in me -- but at the basest level of my being, I am terrified. 

I should not be feeling these things, should not be thinking these thoughts. And yet it is as though there is no other alternative -- I must face them, lest they overpower me. 

When I look in his eyes, now, beyond the numb stare I can see his heart. His hard stare penetrates me, pins me to my seat, and pounds into me angrily. 

Why can't you just cut me loose? it says. Why can't you just cut me loose and let me die? 

If I were not constantly by his side, keeping an eye on him every single moment I could manage it, he would find a way to accomplish it. Purposefully baiting one of the men he was sleeping with, taunting them and infuriating them until they beat him into a senseless pulp. Or sitting in his pod and allowing himself to waste away, drinking his tears as they flowed and thereby quenching his thirst, but refusing to sleep or otherwise nourish himself. 

There are some times I think that it would have been better, for everyone concerned, if they had just sent him to the gas chamber. A harsh ruling, granted, but no harsher than the actual judgement they handed down to him. It would have been a merciful punishment -- a quick and painless end for him -- compared to the depravity he's seen here and the things he's been forced to do just to survive these past few years. Knowing him as I do now, I think he would agree that it would have been the greatest kindness -- though it is a kindness he would most likely feel he did not, does not deserve, even now. 

He is not like the rest of them, not like Schillinger or O'Reilly or even Keller. He does not belong here. This place has tarnished his soul. It's tarnished mine. It seems a more than adequate punishment. 

He has not returned to alcohol or heroin, but this addiction is far worse compared to the others. He still hides from it all -- from Cathy Rockwell and all the rest -- only now he no longer needs the assistance of drugs or alcohol. Instead, he withdraws himself, detatches completely, subsumes his guilt and pain by using others. But an orgasm only lasts so long, and once it's over, he's back to where he started. 

I can see its allure. But I cannot give in to him. It would only serve to encourage him to continue with this self-destructive behavior and that I cannot allow. 

That he had second thoughts and made efforts to stop the wheels he'd deliberately set in motion is heartening. Another grain of his humanity saved and preserved. 

He is not yet lost.  
I will not let him go. 

Allah, give me strength... 


End file.
